


Spaces Between

by ncfan



Series: The Golden Age of Konoha: The Founders [8]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Bitterness, Gen, Sparring, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madara, Izuna, and training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spaces Between

To Madara, honing his skill with his newly-awakened Sharingan serves many purposes. It’s a challenge, keeping him from the clutches of boredom and keeping him from thinking too hard about the reality of his life lately. The latter is perhaps even more valuable than the former; contemplating his newfound responsibilities doesn’t typically leave him in a particularly good place, mentally. _“Responsibility, even the slightest amount, will put gray hairs on your head long before your time,”_ or so Grandfather says.

“Now Madara, keep your sword point up and _watch,_ really watch what Ryuhei’s doing.”

The elder Madoka, currently sitting cross-legged (and uncaring of how unseemly it is for a woman in a skirt to sit thusly) against a tree stump, smoking her gold kiseru (being a well-respected elder has its perks), is a surprisingly diligent taskmaster. But then, Madara had gotten an image of the elders of the Uchiha clan as a bunch of indolent sloths, so anything that contradicts that image is going to surprise him. The fact that Madoka is actively directing them at all is especially striking.

After a couple of minutes more of sparring, Madoka calls an end. “Madara, take a break. Ryuhei, can you continue?” Ryuhei, a thirteen-year-old boy who agreed to help Madara and Izuna today, nods. “Good. Izuna-chan, you’re up!”

Izuna scrambles from his place in the grass beneath the shade of the tree, and Madara goes to sit by Madoka, coughing at the sickly-sweet smoke wafting up in a thin blue wisp from her pipe. Izuna and Ryuhei bow to each other as is only proper before beginning a spar. Izuna flashes a smile to his partner, and, slowly, Ryuhei smiles back. Izuna’s smiles are infectious this way. They begin their spar, with kunai this time instead of swords—Izuna’s not big or strong enough for swords.

Madara sees his brother smile, and for him, this is enough to smile himself, though he tilts his head downwards so his shaggy hair, grown long about the nape of his neck, obscures his face when he does so. Madoka barks instructions to the sparring partners and he leans back in the soft grass and smiles.

At least Izuna can still smile, even when they find themselves parentless boys in a mercenary clan.

“So, how is Shigeo?” Madoka asks unexpectedly, watching Izuna and Ryuhei spar, her thin lips pursed. A slight breeze blows her silver forelocks, loose around her shoulder over her cheekbones.

Madara shrugs. “He’s fine, as far as I can tell.” Not a terribly specific answer, but not an untruthful one either—Shigeo reveals little of his feelings on the death of his daughter to his grandsons. He smiles rarely and speaks less, but other than that, Madara can not discern any change in his behavior. Madara tries not to peer too hard at his grandfather’s face.

“Hmm.” Madoka makes that sound deep in her throat, before turning her attention back to the sparring partners. “Izuna-chan, are you watching Ryuhei or not? And Ryuhei, don’t go easy on the boy just because he’s little!”

“Ha, you won’t be calling me ‘Izuna- _chan_ ’ for much longer, Obaasan!” Izuna remarks jauntily, nearly getting his block knocked off by Ryuhei’s fist as punishment for his inattention.

“And you?”

Madara casts his eyes towards her, mouth hanging slightly open as he struggles to make the words stick in his mind. Madoka’s eyes, dark and piercing like all true children of the Uchiha clan, bear down straight into his skin. When she was younger, it was said that Madoka could ensnare entire armies in genjutsu, and Madara resists the urge to drive the tip of a kunai into his skin, wondering if reality’s shifted on him without his noticing.

When he gives no answer, Madoka snorts and takes a puff on her kiseru. “Not going to answer, are you, boy? Do you already subscribe to the ridiculous notion that shinobi can never express their emotions?”

“It’s not ridiculous!” Madara snaps, bristling.

“Perhaps not when you’re in the heat of battle and distraction means death. But once you’re not fighting anymore, it’s meaningless to bottle those feelings and—Oh, you’re not listening, are you? Ryuhei, Izuna-chan!” Madoka raises her voice and the two boys come to a halt. “That’s enough for today. Izuna-chan, come sit here.” She pats the ground beside her. “Ryuhei, thank you for your help.”

Ryuhei sketches a shallow bow to Madoka, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Izuna collapses in the sweet, soft grass beside his brother and the elder with a sigh. “How am I, Obaasan?” he asks Madoka, stretching out his legs.

“Poor indeed,” Madoka remarks through a thin veil of smoke, and laughs when Izuna’s face falls. “Don’t look so dejected, boy. You’d think you were falling behind, from the face you just made.”

“—Not very nice,” Izuna mumbles, and Madara elbows him in the ribs to quiet him.

“Boys, the Sharingan is a blessed tool, one you must work hard to hone.” Madoka smoothes down the pale, pinkish-lavender skirt of her kimono, brushing away a bit of stray tobacco.  “With it, you can ensnare, hypnotize, become gods among men if you possess sufficient strength.”

“Can you bring back the dead with it?”

Izuna is the one who asks the question, and Madara looks over at him, surprised. His tone is mostly mild, as it normally is, but there runs an ugly undercurrent of bitterness beneath his words. His pale throat and fingers are taut, and Madara has to look away, wishing he knew his brother’s heart better than he does.

Madoka shrugs, her eyes inscrutable as she looks Izuna over. “Anything’s possible, with enough power and the guts to make the impossible possible. Let’s continue.”


End file.
